


Steamed Hams, Except It's A Lemon

by Allen_Pierce



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 05:19:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13804266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allen_Pierce/pseuds/Allen_Pierce
Summary: Skinner has invited Chalmers over for an unforgettable luncheon, but things don't go as planned. Or do they?





	Steamed Hams, Except It's A Lemon

Skinner:

“Oh ye gods,” ejaculated Seymour, opening his oven. “My roast is ruined!”

Smoke stung his eyes and burned his throat as it filled the kitchen, drifting away and carrying with it his hopes for an unforgettable luncheon.

An unforgettable luncheon, and what might just follow. This had been his chance to impress the superintendent, the most beautiful man he had ever known, and cruel fate had wrenched it away from him by turning his sumptuous roast into a giant charcoal briquette.

“No,” he thought aloud, “it can’t end like this. Not when I’ve come so close.”

He slung open the fridge door, finding in his unfocused desperation naught but disappointment. “The only other thing I have to offer is a single hot dog. Not nearly enough for two people. . . .”

From that source of initial disappointment, however—and more specifically, from its unquestionably phallic nature—he drew inspiration. “But what if . . . I were to disguise my own cock . . . as a second hotdog? Could I be so bold?” The shock of imagining something so outrageous galvanised his hot nervous energy, like molten iron, into a broadsword of swift action. He couldn’t bare to go on hiding his feelings from the superintendent another day. If not now, when would he act on them? The answer, he feared, was never. “Ho ho ho ho ho,” he said, a jester’s smile spreading between his cheeks. “Delightfully devilish, Seymour.”

In haste he withdrew from the fridge with the real hotdog and the appropriate condiments. But alas, fate continued to mock him: He found that he was out of buns as well. “To serve my cock on a folded slice of regular bread would be an insult. No, I need buns.” Through the window, he noticed the Kwik-E-Mart. “I could have sworn that establishment was further away from my house, and that a Krusty Burger stood in its place . . . No matter, they should have exactly what I need.”

As he placed one foot upon the windowsill and raised the pane, he heard the kitchen door slam open. He quickly returned the windowpane to its normal, unsuspicious position, just in time to hear Chalmers bellow his name.

“SEEEYMOOOUUUR!” His gravelly voice rumbled, the reverberation making Seymour as erect as he had ever been.

“Ah, superintendent!” he said, casting is gaze astern but holding his position at the window; he couldn’t turn around and let Chalmers see the tent he was pitching. “I was just . . . stretching my calves, on the windowsill! Isometric exercise! Care to join me?”

“Why is there smoke coming from your oven, Seymour?”

Panic set in. He had no explanation. He had in fact, in the excitement of his newly hatched plan, completely forgotten about the roast and the raging fire presently and greedily devouring it. “That isn’t smoke!” he finally said, with no idea for an alternative explanation in mind. “It’s steam!” he quickly added, purely by instinct. “Steam, from the steamed clams we’re having.” He rubbed his belly in an exaggerated fashion for emphasis. "Mmm, steamed clams!"

Chalmers left the room without another word, the door closing behind him. The click of the latch bolt sliding into place his cue, he absconded through the window and made his way to the Kwik-E-Mart.

Chalmers:

Chalmers knew something was burning in that oven, and he was relatively sure it wasn’t clams. But, he wasn't there for the food, and he knew how Seymour was, never wanting to admit to his mistakes. If it truly bothered Chalmers, he wouldn’t have accepted the invitation. He did wonder, though, what would come next.

What was the phrase Seymour had used upon Chalmers’ arrival? “An unforgettable luncheon,” he recalled.

He was content to wait and see what would be so unforgettable about this “luncheon.” But he wondered.

Wondered, and hoped. Hoped for something that seemed impossible, but hoped all the same.

Skinner:

“No time to waste, Seymour,” he thought aloud, climbing through the window. “The superintendent is bound to be suspicious by now.”

He set the bag of buns on the counter and undid the twist tie with one hand as he unzipped his pants with the other. He placed one hotdog, still cold, onto a bun, and adorned it with ketchup and mustard. That wiener serving as a model for his own, he slid his cock into another bun and adorned it with the same accoutrements, in the same manner.

Having done so, he rested his cock on the edge of a platter, and placed the true frank on the opposite edge, for symmetry.

“If all goes according to plan, this should truly be an unforgettable luncheon. If not, I’ll be fired. Or worse.”

With that sobering declaration, he opened the door.

Chalmers:

Something seemed . . . off. Chalmers couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he could tell something was amiss. Seymour was making his way to the table with an awkward gait, carrying a platter that held two hot dogs, in a manner that looked rather uncomfortable.

The fact that they were having a single hot dog apiece was odd in and of itself, but there was something else even stranger that, at present, Chalmers could only vaguely sense.

“Superintendent,” said Seymour, “I hope you’re ready for mouthwatering hot dogs.”

“I thought we were having steamed clams,” Chalmers replied.

“Oh no, I said we were having ‘steamed _hams_.’ That’s what I call hot dogs.”

“You call hot dogs ‘steamed hams’?”

“Yes! It’s a . . . regional dialect.”

“Uh-huh. What region?”

“Uh . . . Upstate New York.”

“Really? Well I’m from Utica and I’ve never heard anyone use the phrase ‘steamed hams.’ ”

“Oh, not in Utica, no, it’s an Albany expression.”

“I see.”

Chalmers reached for the dog on his side of the platter, whence Skinner stood up and came to his side, bringing the other dog with him, carrying it at crotch-level, which Chalmers found especially odd.

“Here, superintendent, let me serve you,” he said, putting one foot on the table so as to point the dog at Chalmers’ face without pulling it away from his crotch.

It was at that moment Chalmers realized that it was no hot dog, but rather Skinner’s cock on a bun. The ol’ switcheroo.

Chalmers decided to play along.

“That’s hardly necessary, but as you wish.”

Skinner:

“It _is_  hardly necessary,” said Seymour, quietly adding, in spite of his better judgment, “in the sense that I need this bad, and am hard in the process of getting it. . . .”

“What was that last part?”

“I said it’s hardly necessary, but I’m happy to do it.”

“I see.”

Skinner could feel the wet heat of Chalmers’ breath as his mouth closed around the tip, and a pleasurable pain as he bit down.

“You know this hot dog is quite tough and chewie. Did you get it from that rolling belt at the Kwik-E-Mart?”

“Oh ho ho ho ho no!” he laughed. He was about to say more when the scraping and grinding of Chalmers’ teeth against his frenulum proved to be too much, causing him to shoot his load into Chalmer’s mouth.

After that, he found it impossible to continue standing. “I don’t want to live anymore,” he said.

Chalmers:

The superintendent swallowed, smiled, and looked down at his forbidden love lying on the floor.

“Give me that wiener!” he shouted, falling to the floor and grabbing the spent cock with both hands; and drew from it, through considerable time and effort, another load. “Now,” he said, “I’m going to ask something odd here, but—”

“You want to stick the real hot dog up my ass before actually fucking me?”

“Precisely.”

“Sounds great!”

Chalmers took the hot dog and rolled it between his hands, warming it slightly and distributing the ketchup and mustard more evenly before sticking it in.

“Oh, that’s cold!”

Skinner:

The principal knew he was fucking on borrowed time. The fire in the kitchen would spread to the rest of the house if he didn’t do something soon, but . . . He couldn’t bring himself to end it. It was everything he had ever wanted and more, and he felt that he could die happy.

Chalmers pulled the hot dog out and Skinner could see that it was limp with heat before Chalmers cast it aside.

“Now for the real fun.”

Agnes:

“Filthy,” she muttered, hearing everything going on downstairs. “But genuinely arousing.”

Then she smelled smoke. She stepped out into the hallway to find a raging inferno and returned to her room.

“Seymour!” she screamed. “The house is on fire!” But there was no response.

Chalmers:

He could hear the shrill voice of Skinner's mother calling out. “Seymour! The house is on fire!”

“Did you hear that?” he inquired, pulling out.

“Yes,” Skinner replied with apparent reluctance. “Excuse me for one second,” he said, getting up and going into the kitchen.

“Of course.”

Almost immediately Skinner returned, stretching and yawning as the door swung back and forth behind him. “That was wonderful! Good time was had by all, I'm pooped!”

“Yes, I really should be—Good Lord, what is happening in there‽”

Skinner:

As soon as he had stepped into the kitchen, he knew there was nothing he could do. When Chalmers asked what was happening his first thought was, inexplicably, _Aurora Borealis_ , but before he had the chance to say it, he heard the ceiling start to give way above him, and in that split second, he realized he had one course of action.

He rushed at Chalmers and tackled him through the window, but before he could defenestrate himself, the house collapsed. He barely had time to process what was happening before a beam landed on his neck, killing him instantly.

Chalmers:

It had been over a week since the tragic death of his beloved Seymour. He stood by as they lowered his casket—which had been closed during the funeral as the only thing that remained was his skeleton—into his grave.

_Well Seymour_ , he thought, _you were an_  odd _fellow, but I must say, you creamed a good jam._


End file.
